


Fermata

by vegancarbs247



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegancarbs247/pseuds/vegancarbs247
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fermata--holding or sustaining a note, chord, or rest at the director's discretion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fermata

For Fletcher, tempo was everything.

 

As much as Neiman wanted to close his eyes and relish it, to relax into the pleasure of his own hand, he couldn’t. He had to keep his now tear-filled eyes on Fletcher. Fletcher, who with a single wave of his hand, prevented Neiman from reaching that peak he desperately needed.

 

Sometimes, Fletcher would make him go slow. So torturously slow, his hand dragging wetly over his dick. Fletcher made him stroke even slower once he reached the head, slow lazy circles that made Neiman groan in frustration. And then Fletcher’s hand waved again, quick through the air into a sharp fist. Neiman’s own hand obeyed, but his heart thundered wildly.

 

Other times, Fletcher made him go fast, just as he had months ago at that all-night rehearsal. _Faster, faster, faster._ Neiman had thought that was hell, but that was nothing compared to the sweet agony of Fletcher watching his hand fly over his dick in a flurry of motion. Fletcher had him on his hands and knees and slipped a finger inside. The moment Fletcher felt him clench, Neiman would see the familiar hand gesture in his periphery, its meaning unmistakable. _Stop._ Fletcher pulled out of him, and Neiman keened, blushed, shuddered.

It wasn’t enough to watch him and stop him, no. Fletcher yelled at him too, or whispered in his ear.

 

_Dirty boy, you’re so greedy for this that you can’t even control yourself. That’s why I have to keep making you stop._

_Maybe next time if you’re good, I’ll fuck your ass until you beg me to come. Tie your hands so you can’t touch your dick. Maybe you’ll come untouched like a horny fucking teenager._

Neiman could usually only groan in response, but it didn’t matter. Fletcher preferred him not to speak. They were on Fletcher's tempo, after all. Sometimes he covered Neiman's mouth if he begged too much. Tears, though, were always welcome, as long as those pretty eyes stayed open enough to see Fletcher’s signals.

 

Finally, finally, Fletcher realized he couldn’t hold on much longer. His face was wet with tears and sweat, and his eyes were closed despite Fletcher’s threat. His hand still moved over his dick, and Fletcher could see him drawing up tight. Neiman opened his eyes just barely, hoping to see Fletcher’s open hand and not his damn fist, hoping to see permission—mercy—in his mentor’s eyes.

 

What Neiman saw was a hint of a smile and a slight nod, that rare expression he saw for the first time the night of Carnegie Hall.

 

He knew what it meant.


End file.
